


Socks

by Lightspeed



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Baseball, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-03
Updated: 2013-09-03
Packaged: 2017-12-25 23:27:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/958865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightspeed/pseuds/Lightspeed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Medic misunderstands Scout talking about his favourite baseball team, Scout can’t help but tease him over it.  From there, it escalates rather surprisingly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Socks

“Americans have the strangest customs,” Medic shook his head, screwing the lid back onto the jar of mayonnaise he had sitting on the kitchen counter. He carefully laid a white-coated slice of bread on top of the sandwich he was building, smiling at his handiwork.

“The hell are you goin' on about?” Scout asked from his seat on a nearby counter top, turning from the conversation he was having with Engineer.

“You” the doctor turned, gesturing with his dirty knife. “You are always going on about socks! The socks this, the socks that. The socks are going all the way this year. The socks are winners for sure. Did you hear the socks game today? Socks, socks, socks! What kind of sport is played with socks? Let alone that it has radio play, und your slavish devotion!”

The Americans across the room stared at Medic for moments unending, disbelieving glances at each other. Medic was serious. Engineer stifled a chuckle while Scout had to clutch the counter as his laughter burst forth finally, unable to be restrained through his nose's desperate attempt at blocking its exit.

“You're freakin' serious, ain't you?” Scout chortled, shaking so hard his middle began to ache.

Medic's lips curved out in an annoyed pout. He tossed the knife into the sink. “Of course I am serious. What is so verdammt funny?”

“The fact that you're so freakin' dumb. The _Sox_ , Doc. The Boston Red Sox. They're a baseball team!” Scout corrected, taking a deep breath to try and suppress the small laughing aftershocks that threatened to come out as rather unmanly giggles.  
  
“I see. Your teams have such ludicrous names.”  
  
“Yeah, 'least we ain't the Phillies.”

Engineer shook his head, “Leave Philadelphia alone, boy. Jus' because they ain't original--”

“Shit, that place was the capitol once, they can come up with a ton 'a better stuff than the nickname of the damn city, man!”

“Fair enough.”  
  
Medic frowned, took his sandwich, and left, rolling his eyes.

 

*

 

Bending over to pick up his basket of laundry, Medic sighed. He hated doing laundry. Not because of the task itself, but the inevitable folding and hanging and putting away he had to do. It was so tedious, and he had plenty of other tedious tings he could be doing instead. He hefted the basket up, eager to get out of the humid laundry room, when something soft bounced off the back of his head at high speed. Startled, he dropped his basket with a yelp and whirled around, only to catch another soft projectile, this time square in the forehead.

It was a sock.

A balled-up tube sock.

Scout stood in the doorway with a pillow case full of the things, chuckling. “So how about them socks, huh Doc? I think they're gonna go all,” he threw another, “the,” and another, “way,” one more, “this year!”

The socks bounced off of Medic, hitting him expertly in spite of his attempts at dodging. “Are you serious? Oh, you have begun a battle you will soon regret, schweinhund!” Snatching up some of his fallen laundry, he gave chase, busily rolling socks up as he followed Scout, who had torn off down the hall, laughing.

 

*

 

“Is it safe?” Spy asked, peering out from under the mess table.

“I think so, lad,” Demoman replied, peering out into the hall. “Not heard a peep from either for at least half an hour, so we may've weathered the worst of it. I cannae believe they've been at this for two days.”

“I can't believe we're hidin' in 'ere like a bunch of bloody children,” Sniper groused, taking a sip from his coffee.

“Shh!” the bomber at the door shushed, craning his neck. “Someone's comin'.”

“Well who is it?” came Sniper's snippy response.  
  
“I think it's... aye! It is! Pyro, lad, get in here, quickly!”

The door slammed shut as Pyro ducked into the mess, leaning up against the portal like it was the only barrier between them and chaos. His hurried breathing could be heard through his mask, and though his face was hidden, somehow, he looked harrowed.

“Pyro, son, you alright?” Engineer asked, approaching his friend.

The arsonist shuddered. Through the heavy muffle of his mask and filters, his voice mumbled out, “It was horrible. Socks, everywhere!”

“What about Heavy? Soldier? Did you find 'em?”

Pyro hung his head, shaking it slightly. “It's too late for them.”

**Author's Note:**

> based on a prompt by Ysmni
> 
> (Also: Oh, look, shots at Pennsylvania. Who could've foreseen that out of one of my fics?)


End file.
